


Tomorrow

by MaverikLoki



Series: TnT [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders no, Angst, Fenders, Hurt/Comfort, I'd say I'm sorry but I'd be lying, Justice double no, Legacy DLC, M/M, More angst, oblique reference to past non-con, sassmasters, why is everyone glowing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Justice and The Cause take over more of Anders' time, Anders doesn't think there's room in his life for Fenris. Fenris disagrees.</p><p>For a prompt: "Justice is constantly pushing Anders to work harder, to do more. Anders starts eating and sleeping less and less, knocking back lyrium potions anytime he starts to slow down. Eventually he pushes himself too far and collapses at an extremely inconvenient moment."</p><p>Will overlap with the Legacy DLC, because Corypheus!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random: "Tomorrow was a different story" is the last line of the prequel. 
> 
> This is a different story. Called Tomorrow.
> 
> I'm only just now realizing the awful pun I've made. Dear, sweet Maker.

‘One day’ had become a week, one week had become two.  
  
“Today,” Anders told himself (and Justice) that morning, just as he had yesterday and the day before. Today he would end it.  
  
But when Fenris walked into his clinic, Hawke’s scowling, elf-shaped shadow, Anders knew it wouldn’t be that simple.  
  
Isabela sauntered in on the other side of Hawke, absently cleaning sand from her cleavage.  
  
“I swear,” Hawke said by way of greeting, “it’s almost like the bandits fall from the sky! It’s ridiculous, really.”  
  
His fellow mage was all smiles, cheeks and ears red from too much sun under today’s layers of dirt and sweat. Anders huffed and went back to his work, grinding leaves with a mortar and pestle.  
  
“I thought you’d be familiar with the weather in Kirkwall by now, Hawke,” Anders quipped. “Wet in spring, dreary in winter, sunny with a chance of raining men in summer.”  
  
“I _knew_ there was a reason I liked summer,” Isabela said, nudging Fenris with her elbow and waggling her eyebrows.  
  
Fenris snorted. Green eyes met brown over Hawke’s shoulder, and Anders watched the elf’s scowl soften, his eyes light. There was something close to affection under the not-smile, something soft and fragile and much too precious to trust with someone like Anders and those were _not_ butterflies in his stomach, nope, because he wasn’t some swoony teenage girl with a crush and—  
  
“Well, do they have to be stabby men?” Hawke whined. For once, the chattering Champion of Kirkwall wasn’t the center of his universe. He gestured towards Anders’ supply cabinet, a question in his eyes. Anders nodded, and Hawke smiled, plucking the dozen or so healing potions and poultices he’d commissioned off the top shelf.  
  
“Sorry, Hawke. Charming, handsome fellows like me don’t just drop out of the sky.”  
  
“A shame, that,” Hawke countered with a wink as he hefted his pack, the potions inside clinking together. Isabela hummed in agreement, her eyes glazing over. Probably picturing it.  
  
Anders felt Fenris’ eyes on him. He looked up and saw the elf looking at him like he planned to devour him. Anders’ hand slipped on the mortar and pestle.  
  
“Wicked Grace tomorrow?” Hawke asked, patting Anders’ arms as he passed.  
  
Was tomorrow Wicked Grace night already? Anders’ brows furrowed.  
  
 _ **We worked through the night again,**_ Justice told him.  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Anders said, smiling to cover his unease at that realization. Justice grumbled in the back of his mind about wasting time with drink and cards. Anders gave him the mental equivalent of a middle finger.  
  
“Excellent! I’ll see you then. Keep an eye on the weather in the meantime.”  
  
Anders shook his head as Hawke slipped out the door, offering Anders a final wink. Isabela followed, pausing in the doorway when Fenris didn’t move. “You coming, Broody?”  
  
Fenris kept his stare on Anders as he said, “I wrenched my shoulder in that last battle, and I think perhaps our resident healer should look at it.”  
  
“Oh, you think that, do you?” Anders countered.  
  
Fenris smirked, his stare losing none of its intensity, and Anders flushed down to his toes. He cleared his throat and went back to grinding his elfroot leaves.  
  
“Ooh, the roguish healer laying hands on the swarthy elf?” Isabela purred. “Can I watch?”  
  
Fenris answered more eloquently than Anders could. He kicked the door closed.

Anders had to laugh, but then Fenris was on him, kissing away the sound and shoving Anders into the wall. Poultices rattled, and the lines of shelves left pleasant bruises along Anders’ spine. Ground elfroot spilled to the floor as he clutched at Fenris’ hair, at his back, and Anders could not care less.  
  
Through the press of skin on skin, through gasping, shared breaths, the sweet song of lyrium lulled Justice into something close to peace.  
  
 _Peace._  
  
As Anders laid awake that night, running fingers through silver strands, he knew this was the only time he’d feel at peace. The elf would have sleep-lines on his face when he woke up, the way his cheek pressed against Anders’ chest, and he took little snuffling breaths that weren’t quite snores. For once, Fenris didn’t seem to dream, and Anders wondered if it had to do with Justice’s proximity, wondered if this was the only way _he’d_ feel peace too.  
  
“What’s one more day?” Anders whispered into the night. Justice murmured his displeasure but seemed oddly relieved.  
  
If tomorrow he whispered the same question to the same empty room, well. He was only human.  
  
  
  
“ _No_!”  
  
Isabela’s smile was one of pleased disbelief, eyes sparkling.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Varric countered, sitting at a conspiratorial lean.  
  
“You’re pulling my leg.”  
  
Varric put up his hands, palm out. “It’s true. I swear on my mother’s beard.”  
  
Isabela looked like her birthday had come early. She _cackled_ , bouncing giddily in her chair. Even after she’d calmed, her grin split her face. “I knew it! Our darling Fenris has a mage fetish. Ooh, the two of them together. Can you picture it?”  
  
Varric didn’t particularly want to, but he had to chuckle at the rapturous look on Isabela’s face. “I know that look. That’s the ‘I’m so writing friend fiction about this’ look.”  
  
The heavy clomp of boots on wooden stairs announced their fearless leader’s arrival. He balanced three drinks, sliding two over to the whispering pair before slumping into the chair at the other side of Varric’s, across from Isabela. Merrill followed with a drink of her own, sliding into her seat more gracefully.  
  
“What’s going on?” Hawke asked. He narrowed his eyes at the way they leaned towards each other, their barely-there shirts gaping open. “Are you two having a cleavage contest? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He patted his woefully-covered chest and pouted.  
  
“Because we know you’d win, dear,” Isabela replied.  
  
Hawke looked mollified.  
  
The stairs barely creaked under another set of feet. Fenris appeared, a dark silhouette in the doorway. He narrowed his eyes, brows furrowed, at the smirks exchanged around the table but said nothing. He slid into the seat next to Isabela, nodding at everyone in greeting, and set a strong-smelling drink in front of him.  
  
Isabela and Varric hid their snickers in their drinks when another set of boots clomped up the stairs, not half a minute later.  
  
“Evening, everyone,” Anders chirped. He didn’t have a drink, but he seemed cheery enough without one, for once.  
  
“Evening, sailor,” Isabela purred, adding an exaggerated wink. Varric fought back his smirk.  
  
Anders paused, eyeing her before sinking into the seat next to Fenris (rather gingerly, Varric noted).  
  
“Mage,” Fenris greeted without looking up.  
  
“Elf,” Anders replied, staring straight ahead. Isabela was probably taking mental notes, but so was Varric. This would be his best chapter yet.  
  
Since Aveline would join them later, Varric started to deal (Isabela was no longer allowed to, but even Varric admitted he was just as bad). The table was unusually quiet, eyes peering over cards at Anders and Fenris, who looked everywhere but at each other, thighs and shoulders determinedly not touching. They still bickered like an old married couple, but their barbs had a more playful edge. Ancestors, they were so obvious.  
  
Varric won the first round, naturally, and as everyone grumblingly slid over his winnings, he saw Anders’ hand brush Fenris’. Elf and mage stiffened and exchanged (what they thought was) a furtive glance.  
  
Hawke shuffled the cards loudly, glaring at the pair like he wanted to set them both on fire.  
  
Isabela had a finger between her teeth, biting down to keep from laughing.

“Ancestors,” Varric muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “This is painful.”  
  
Isabela seemed to agree. She rearranged her cards, humming softly to herself, and waited until Fenris was in the middle of a drink to say, “So, Fenris. Has Anders tried the electricity thing on you yet?”  
  
Varric smirked at the sound of choking beside her.  
  
Anders squeaked as Fenris thumped his chest, coughing. The mage laughed nervously. “Charming, Isabela. Are you confusing reality with your fantasies again?”  
  
Three sets of eyes stared down two. Anders squirmed.  
  
“What’s the electricity thing?” Merrill asked.  
  
“I’ll show you later,” Hawke muttered. Despite the quip, his smile looked strained.  
  
Interesting.  
  
“Is it something dirty? Oh! Does this have to do with Fenris sleeping with Anders?”  
  
Fenris stiffened, eyes popping wide. “I am not—!”  
  
“Maker, do _all_ of you know?” Anders groaned.  
  
“ _Mage_.” Fenris shot him a look, but it held more desperation than venom. Anders ignored it.  
  
“We do as of ten minutes ago,” Varric answered, pointing his thumb at Isabela.  
  
“You mean _I_ was the last to know?” she blurted. “That’s not fair!” Her eyes popped wide. “Sweet Maker! You actually _did_ stay in the clinic for sweaty fun-times yesterday! I knew I should have eavesdropped!”  
  
Hawke made a choked sound in the back of his throat.  
  
“Usually _I’m_ the one who misses something dirty!” Merrill chirped. “I thought it was pretty obvious.”  
  
Anders and Fenris turned twin looks of disbelief in her direction. “ _You_ thought it was obvious?” Anders asked in a strangled voice.  
  
“Oh, I think it’s cute,” Merrill replied sunnily. “The way you two always puff yourselves up whenever the other is in the room. Pretending you’re not staring at each other. Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally together!”  
  
Her words were drowned out by another set of footsteps.  
  
“What are we talking about?” Aveline asked, armor clanking as she sat next to Merrill, across from the wide-eyed couple. Her cheeks were ruddy, hair frizzed from a long day’s work. Hawke muttered something and excused himself.  
  
“About what a cute couple Fenris and Anders make,” Varric answered sweetly. Fenris’ glare promised murder. Twice.  
  
“Oh good, so we can stop pretending we don’t know about it?” Aveline replied.  
  
“Was I the _only_ one who didn’t know?” Isabela groaned. “Maker, to think of all the bad puns I could have been making all this time!” Her pout turned back into a smirk in the next moment, however, which she turned on Fenris. “So who’s the one ‘steering the ship’, by the way? Or do you take turns? I know Anders is good with a staff, but then there’s your magical fisting thing…”  
  
Anders dropped his face into his hands, ears flushing red. “Dear, sweet Maker…”  
  
Fenris was a stiff line to his right, unmoving except for the hand holding his tankard and his throat muscles as he guzzled his drink down as fast as he could.

 

Anders excused himself from the next round, deciding that Justice could sod it because he _really_ needed a drink, thank you. The spirit helpfully reminded him that he’d allowed Anders to get drunk the night he’d killed Alrik, but that they both regretted it in the morning.  
  
Anders had plenty of regrets. What was one more?  
  
Two more, if the panicked glare Fenris sent him as he stood to leave was anything to go by. He smiled stiffly and blew the elf a kiss (to Isabela’s delight) and Fenris’ glare turned downright chilly, promising all manner of pain later. Anders shivered. He was looking forward to it.  
  
When Anders approached the bar, Hawke’s broad shoulders blocked Corff from view. Anders sidled up next to the Champion and gestured at the barkeep while Hawke frowned into his drink.  
  
“Moved on to the after party, have we?” Anders quipped, even though his instincts told him to shut up and leave it alone. “You realize that the original party is still going, right?”  
  
Hawke grit his teeth. “It was quieter out here. Emphasis on the _was_.”  
  
Anders quirked an eyebrow, and Hawke had the grace to look abashed. He cleared his throat.  
  
“So. You and Fenris.” The names echoed from half inside Hawke’s cup before he took a swig.  
  
“Mhmm. You and Merrill,” Anders reminded him.  
  
Hawke took a long drink before letting his drink drop to the counter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a decidedly un-noble habit that would have had his mother tutting. It was the sort of thing that once would have made Anders smile adoringly. Now Anders barely blinked.  
  
Loving Hawke, it seemed, had ended as gradually and sneakily as it had begun.  
  
“Yep.”  
  
It still left an ache, though. Like a healing scar. Especially knowing that Hawke wasn’t this upset over _him_.  
  
“You still have feelings for Fenris, don’t you?” Maker, he was too sober for this.  
  
Hawke stared straight ahead. Eventually he sighed, body sagging, deflating. “I love Merrill,” he said. “But there will always be a part of me that wonders what I did wrong, what I could have done differently.” He shook his head. “It… doesn’t matter. It’s either the drink talking or his brooding is contagious.”  
  
Anders wondered what it must have been like, falling for and losing Fenris like that, suddenly and without explanation.  
  
“You know that if you hurt him, I’ll kill you,” Hawke said, matter-of-fact. Anders believed it.  
  
“Yes, ser,” Anders replied jauntily, eyes a touch too wide. “And… if he hurts _me_?”  
  
Anders meant physically, after Justice made him break the elf’s heart, but he wasn’t about to tell Hawke that.  
  
“Well, then I guess I’d have to kill _him_ ,” Hawke said, shrugging as though that were obvious. His certainty surprised and warmed Anders.  
  
Hawke snapped the tension with a smile. He patted Anders’ shoulder and pointed out that his drink had arrived.

 

Anders couldn’t concentrate on his manifesto. After spending half an hour on one word, he deemed it a lost cause for the night, even as Justice made his displeasure known in the press of a headache at his temples.  
  
“Yes, yes, I know. He’s a distraction,” he muttered peevishly. “I don’t need to hear it.”  
  
‘Today’ was almost over. Tomorrow, he would… tomorrow…  
  
Maker, Hawke was going to kill him, wasn’t he?  
  
 _ **Hawke… is a good ally to have. As is Fenris.**_  
  
Anders’ hands paused where they were, shuffling and neatening the pages of his manifesto.  
  
“Come again?”  
  
 _ **We should not antagonize what few allies we have.**_  
  
He wished Justice still had a separate body just so he could lever his incredulous look at something tangible. “Are _you_ trying to talk us into keeping him now?”  
  
Anders had been relying on the Justice half of his mind to be firm. He hadn’t expected this.  
  
Justice gave the mental equivalent of a full-body squirm.  
  
“Mage.”  
  
Speak of the demon. Fenris stalked into his clinic (Anders noticed his lantern had been snuffed out, the candle still smoking) and closed and locked the doors. He moved quickly, efficiently, as though readying for battle, and a part of Anders itched to reach for his staff.  
  
“Fenris?”  
  
The elf stalked over to his desk and grabbed Anders by the lapels, eyes intense and nearly black in the wan lighting. As he was manhandled back into a pillar, legs backpedaling to keep up, Anders wondered if this would end with a knife or a tongue down his throat.  
  
Fenris claimed his lips with a growl, caging the mage against stone with the length of his smaller body. Tongue it was. Anders would deny he whimpered.  
  
“Fenris,” Anders panted against the elf’s lips. “What…?”  
  
Fenris still tasted of that sour drink he favored at the Hanged Man. “I do not like the way Hawke was looking at you,” he growled, before pulling Anders’ lip between his teeth, applying pressure without breaking the skin. With his teeth and gauntlets and anger, Fenris was all controlled violence.  
  
Anders’ fingernails were going to leave crescent-shaped dents in Fenris’ armor.  
  
“Jealous?” Anders smirked. “Afraid Hawke’s going to switch out apostate bed-partners and leave you with Merrill?” Hawke had looked like he wanted to kill Anders, not screw him, but he didn’t care _how_ Hawke looked at him if it resulted in this. “You’re right. I’m much more fun.”  
  
“Shut up, mage.” Fenris grabbed a hank of Anders’ hair to tilt his head back, lyrium lines flared to life. Justice gave a full-body shudder.  
  
 _Alright back there?_ Anders asked, giddy and drunk off Fenris’ lips tracing his jugular and the exploratory press of armored fingers.  
  
 _ **He is… a good ally,**_ Justice said again, a touch distractedly.  
  
Anders laughed, something easing in his chest. This was as close to permission as Justice was going to give.  
  
Fenris stilled at the sound, brows furrowed, but Anders pressed the advantage, flipping them so that he was the one pinning Fenris to the pillar. He swallowed Fenris’ gasp and slowed the kiss, turning it into something more torturous than frenzied. Let the elf grow impatient—he wanted to savor this.  
  
Not today then, Anders decided. And not tomorrow either, if he could help it.


	2. Chapter 2

“Go, go, go!”  
  
Anders never did know when to learn his lesson. He suspected his hard-headedness would get him killed one day (and he could hear Fenris agreeing with that— _Maker_ , wasn’t one voice in his head enough?), but that same hard-headedness told him that it wouldn’t be today.  
  
How did Templars run so fast in such heavy armor, anyway?  
  
“They’re gaining on us!” the soon-to-be apostate said, glancing over his shoulder at Anders, eyes large enough for the whites to show clearly in the dark. He was a bit on the pudgy side, pale from lack of sunlight except for the red blotches on his cheeks from exertion, and he clutched the skirts of his robes with one hand as he ran.  
  
The voice shouting orders behind him sounded an awful lot like Cullen, and the last thing Anders needed was the Knight-Captain identifying him to Meredith.  
  
Cursing, Anders threw a haste spell over the two of them and watched the old smugglers’ tunnel pass by in a blur. They scurried out of the tunnel and climbed into Darktown, Anders pulling his cargo—what was his name? Ellonni?—along by the sleeve.  
  
They had to lose the Templars, had to blend in with a crowd, had to—  
  
No sooner were Ellonni and Anders out of the tunnel than it was exploding behind them, making the earth quiver and sending them staggering back. Rock caved in, swallowing the tunnel exit.  
  
Anders turned to see a stony-faced Hawke, his hand still outstretched in an incantation. When his friend met his stare, Anders wondered if he might die today after all.  
  
“Anders,” Hawke grated, gripping his staff with one hand and rubbing his forehead with the other. “I know you already have a voice in your head, so this question is redundant, but _are_ you insane? After what happened with Alrik? Really?”  
  
Anders threw a guilty look in Ellonni’s direction.  
  
“He’s the last one. Hawke. I’m sorry. They were going to make him Tranquil tomorrow!”  
  
Hawke drew in a breath, favoring Anders with a flat look. “There’s always someone being made Tranquil in this city,” he said. “I’d rather you not be next.”  
  
“I know,” Anders replied, brushing himself off. He clasped Hawke’s arm and smiled tiredly. “And I’m sorry. Justice was starting to get a bit squirmy, and I _had_ to do something…” He glanced at the cave-in. “No chance of Templars barging through there anytime soon, do you think?”  
  
Ellonni sidled up to them, wringing his hands. “Y-you have my thanks, Messeres,” he said meekly.  
  
“Do you have a way out of the city?” Hawke asked.  
  
Ellonni nodded. “Yes, Messere. I’ll be alright from here, Messere. Thank you.” He clutched Anders’ hand and nodded his thanks one last time before darting off into the dark.  
  
Anders frowned. “He should have at least let me escort him to Lowtown—”  
  
“I think you’ve done enough for him, Anders.” Hawke’s fond smile softened his tone. He squeezed Anders’ shoulder, at the base of his neck. Anders had to remind himself that this was the same man who’d scowled at him over drinks the day before yesterday. “Hanged Man?”  
  
“Maker, yes. And… thank you, by the way.”  
  
“I know, my timing was impeccable. It always is.”  
  
Anders rolled his eyes as Hawke chuckled, sliding an arm about his shoulders and steering them towards Lowtown, away from the stink of the sewers.

 

Lately, Justice was acting more like a demon of Impatience than a spirit of virtue. If Fenris’ presence calmed him, the elf’s absence made him insufferable.  
  
Lounging in bed seemed slothful to Justice. As did eating or drinking or doing _anything_ for pleasure. Sleep and food were fuel for the body as far as he was concerned, and if Anders didn’t spend so much time on frivolous indulgences, the mages in Kirkwall would be free by now.  
  
Speaking of, Anders was feeling a bit peckish. He wondered if there was any of that moldy cheese left in Fenris’ larder. He wondered if Fenris had realized he _had_ a larder yet.  
  
Anders suspected Justice’s impatience stemmed from guilt over indulging himself with Fenris, no matter how often Anders assured him that they didn’t need to be working towards The Cause every hour of the day.  
  
But they’d had their fun for the night, and Anders could be working on his manifesto. He could be working on a new route for the mage underground. He could be—  
  
His skin tingled at the touch of lyrium-lined fingers across his cheek, and Anders opened his eyes to see Fenris still awake and watching him, head cradled on the opposite pillow.  
  
Justice quieted again.  
  
Anders burrowed closer, preemptively shutting Justice up by surrounding himself with graceful limbs and lyrium lines. Fenris obliged, tucking the mage under his chin. Their ‘sleepovers’ were always much cozier in Fenris’ mansion, despite the holes in the walls and ceiling. Having a bed with an actual mattress helped.  
  
Justice was blessedly quiet when Anders did fall asleep, and whenever he’d start to shake with nightmares, a certain elf would stroke his hair and murmur to him in Tevene until he quieted, whether Anders would remember in the morning or not.  
  
They were still tangled when Varric found them the next morning.  
  
“Knock, knock,” he said cheerily, Bianca slung over his shoulder as he clomped into the room.  
  
“Augh,” Anders replied, only a tad more polite than Fenris’, “Get out.”  
  
“Aw, look at you two turtledoves. Warms the cockles of my heart.” Varric pressed a hand to his exposed chest.  
  
“You just wanted to say the word ‘cockles’, didn’t you?” Anders grumbled, his nose still pressed to Fenris’ chest.  
  
“Any opportunity I can get,” Varric replied. “Anyway, I’d hate to interrupt morning cuddle-time, but Hawke sent me to fetch you two. Preferably with your clothes, I’m assuming, though he didn’t specify.”  
  
Fenris huffed, stirring Anders’ hair, and the mage smirked. Anders doubted he’d get much healing done with a nude Fenris nearby. He whined when the elf slipped out of bed and pulled on his leggings, uncaring of his nudity. Anders admired his backside for a long moment before Justice prodded him, telling him he’d slept long enough.  
  
Maker, what was the point of being an ‘abomination’ if he didn’t get to have any fun?  
  
“What trouble has that man stirred up now?” Fenris asked, his voice extra gravelly from sleep. Anders shivered at the sound and finally sat up, combing the hair back from his eyes and tying it up. He slid out of bed, smothering a yawn, and cast about for his leggings, frowning when they weren’t with the rest of his clothes.  
  
“Oh, the usual,” Varric answered, before wolf-whistling at Anders’ bare backside. “Nice legs, Blondie.” He tossed Anders his leggings. Maker, how had they ended up on the other side of the room?  
  
“Admire them while you can,” Anders replied as he tugged them on.  
  
“No. No admiring,” Fenris growled, earning a laugh from the dwarf.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, Broody. I save most of my admiration for the ladies.”  
  
“’Most’?” Anders quipped, pulling his tunic over his head. Varric winked and blew him a kiss, and Anders snorted a laugh.  
  
Pulling on his gauntlets, Fenris favored Varric with a flat look. “Are you going to give us more information than ‘the usual’?” he asked.  
  
Anders rolled his eyes. Sometimes the elf was as bad as Justice.

“You know those murders in Lowtown last week?” Varric answered, shifting his grip on Bianca, “Apparently there are rumors that a new blood mage cabal was behind them, and Hawke wants to investigate before the Templars do.”  
  
Anders paused, halfway through buckling his coat. Last week, the distraught mother of one of the murder victims had pleaded with him to heal her dead boy, and Fenris had had to physically pull her out of the clinic, murmuring soft words Anders never would have expected from him. That wasn’t the sort of thing he was going to forget. “Another one?” he groaned, his heart sinking. In the back of his mind, Justice raged. These fool mages were sabotaging themselves and the rest of their kind. They were—  
  
“Anders.”  
  
Fenris’ claws dug into Anders’ pauldrons, and the mage blinked, wondering when he’d gotten there.  
  
“Was I glowing?” he asked with a sheepish smile to cover his alarm. He’d blanked out again. That kept happening lately.  
  
Fenris’ look was thunderous. “He’s staying here,” he told Varric.  
  
“Ex _cuse_ me?” Anders shoved aside Fenris’ hand.  
  
“The last thing you need to do is draw Templar attention to yourself,” Fenris snapped. “Just the _thought_ of going after these mages has your— has _Justice_ clawing his way out. You’re staying here!”  
  
“I think I will decide what I will and will not do, _Master_.”  
  
Fenris stiffened, and Varric mouthed ‘oh shit’ to Bianca.  
  
“Fine!” Fenris snapped, strapping his sword to his back. “What do _I_ care if you’re made Tranquil? Kirkwall might finally have some peace and quiet!”  
  
“Fine!” Anders snapped back, snatching up his staff and pressing right into the elf’s space. “Maybe we’ll run into some of your Templar friends and you can hold me down for them!”  
  
“Maybe we’ll meet some _other abominations_!” Fenris pressed right back. They stood nose to nose, and the anger in Fenris’ eyes made Anders’ blood pump faster.  
  
“Why not? Then you can screw them too before telling them how disgusting they are!”  
  
“ _Vanhedis_ , do you _ever_ shut up?”  
  
Anders answered with a kiss. It was harsh, biting, but Fenris kissed back just as ardently, gauntlets fisting in blond hair, just this side of painful. Anders’ arguments were forgotten in the wake of Fenris’ touch and taste.  
  
Varric cleared his throat, and the two stopped, pulling enough apart to look at him. Fenris kept one hand in Anders’ hair.  
  
Anders licked his lips. “We’ll, uh… we’ll be right there.”  
  
The dwarf shook his head, eyes wide. “Wow,” was all he said before walking out of the room.

 

Anders hated that fighting abominations along the Wounded Coast was becoming a thing. It was worth it to watch Fenris fight, however, to watch him move.  
  
(Justice told him nothing was worth this, but Anders told him to hush.)  
  
Anders fell into a rhythm, manipulating the elements and healing wounds as soon as they appeared, until finally the blood mage leader charged them over the sand dunes, fighting beside the abominations and knocking back Varric with a well-timed stone fist.  
  
Lightning seared by from Hawke’s staff, and the blood mage dodged, the lightning just grazing and knocking back his hood. Anders readied to blanket him with ice, only for shock to freeze _him_ instead.  
  
“Ellonni?”  
  
The blood mage met his stare. The next thing Anders knew, he was being launched back into the cliff face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of you have Inquisition? Addicting as hell, isn't it?
> 
> On a related note, there's a prompt, asking for Anders as the Inquisitor (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10859.html?thread=45715051#t45715051). There's already an ongoing fill and two more writers indicating an interest as well. Read the fill. It's amazing.
> 
> Oh, and um. I apologize in advance for the angst...

Hawke’s hand on Anders’ arm levered him back to his feet, Hawke’s staff angled to guard them both. Anders sent healing magic down his bruised back.  
  
“Anders, darling,” Hawke said tightly, “ _please_ tell me this isn’t the runaway mage from the other day.”  
  
“I wish I could. You can kill me later, Hawke.”  
  
Fenris had Ellonni on his knees, massive sword aimed at his throat. The blood mage’s expression was grim, eyes fever-bright, and there was no trace of the wide-eyed, guileless fear Anders remembered. Hawke, Varric, and Anders formed a loose circle around Ellonni.  
  
A dead boy’s face flashed through Anders’ mind. He… he couldn’t have freed a _murderer_.  
  
“I _helped_ you!” he roared, clenching his fists to keep from striking the traitor.  
  
“Yes, and I’d rather not kill you,” Ellonni said, eyes hard. Behind him, Hawke scoffed. “He’s the one my new master is after. _His_ blood.” He jerked his chin in Hawke’s direction.  
  
Hawke threw up his hands. “Of course I am. Why not.”  
  
Justice bubbled under Anders’ skin, boiling over to paint him in a wash of blue light. “ _ **Did you kill those children?**_ ” he asked, voice echoing with the weight of two voices.  
  
Ellonni looked at him with wide eyes, gathering energy in his hand. “I… I did what I had to—”  
  
“ _ **You soil the name ‘mage’ with your transgressions!**_ "  
  
Fenris’ sword arced through the air and through Ellonni’s neck, spraying Anders with blood.  
  
“ _Fenris_!” Hawke hissed. “Normally we question the crazy mage who isn’t working alone before we kill him!”  
  
“He’d be dead either way, Hawke,” Fenris replied, his eyes on Anders, unblinking.  
  
Hawke followed Fenris’ stare. “Oh.”  
  
Even after the corpse had slumped to the ground, Justice _seethed_ , and Anders struggled to rein him in before he took out his aggression on the wrong person.  
  
“He’s dead,” Anders hissed through grit teeth. “Calm down.”  
  
“ _ **Justice must be paid for this outrage**_!”  
  
Justice continued to rage like a caged tiger, and Anders thought of Ella, of how he’d almost killed that poor girl.  
  
Fenris walked up to him, green eyes cutting into ethereal blue as his markings flared to life. The Fade overlaid their world, and Justice calmed immediately, letting Anders take back control. Anders could kiss the crazy elf.  
  
“Oh, sweet Maker. Thank you.”  
  
“Is this true?” the elf asked, tone clipped, his markings dying down. “Did you help a blood mage escape the Circle?”  
  
Anders looked up and realized that Justice hadn’t been the only one trembling with rage.  
  
“I…” Anders cleared his throat, still expecting to hear Justice’s voice. “I did not know he was a blood mage.”  
  
“But you _did_ help him escape?” Fenris all but shouted. Anders winced. “Why should I listen to you about the injustice of the Circle when this is the alternative?”  
  
“The Templars accuse everyone of blood magic. I thought they were lying! They were going to make him Tranquil!”  
  
Maker, those children. This couldn’t be happening.  
  
Fenris was still holding his sword. Anders held his staff protectively in front of him. Varric and Hawke exchanged glances.  
  
“Better Tranquil than a murderer!” Fenris said, his voice sounding oddly choked. “How many other blood mages have you freed for the sake of your _cause_? Do lost lives only count to you if they’re _mage_ lives?”  
  
“How dare you!” Anders roared. In the back of his mind, he panicked, unsure how many of those mages _had_ been blood mages. “ _I’m_ the one running a free clinic! I devote precious time, energy, and resources to the poor because I _know_ every life matters! You think I don’t remember that mother and her boy? You think I don’t blame myself for that now?” Anders’ voice shook at this last bit. “But you would have me made Tranquil the moment you met Justice!”  
  
“And _Justice_ would have killed that girl, would have attacked us if I hadn’t stepped in! Better a mage becomes Tranquil than the monster you’ve turned into!”  
  
“Fenris,” Hawke admonished, sounding startled.  
  
“Now, now, boys, let’s kiss and make up,” Varric said with an uneasy laugh. “You know, like before? Just… hopefully with less tongue this time?”

Anders stared at Fenris, feeling his heart break and harden in one breath. Justice went silent.  
  
Fenris grimaced and closed his eyes, looking suddenly worn. “Mage,” he said, voice gentling, “I—”  
  
“Save it.”  
  
Anders brushed past Hawke, heading for Kirkwall, tears of anger and guilt prickling in his eyes. Not even the elf’s lyrium song could calm Justice after that.  
  
  
  
Anders tried to work on his manifesto, tried to channel his anger, his despair, into something productive, but all he could think of were green eyes and ugly words.  
  
“He didn’t mean it,” Anders murmured, needing to believe it. “He’s said this sort of thing before. He didn’t mean it.”  
  
The quill twisted in his hand, bits of feather wearing off and fluttering to the ground.  
  
 _ **He did**_ , Justice said. _**He has made us complacent. Lazy. We gave him a chance, but he can be no ally in this. You know what we must do.**_  
  
Anders shoved the desk away, ignoring the clatter of his inkpot spilling over, and passed a hand over his eyes. After a moment, he sat back, barking a laugh between tearful sniffles.  
  
“Letting me be happy, just this once… can’t _that_ be a sort of justice?” he asked the empty room. “And him? Where’s the justice in breaking his heart?”  
  
The spirit gave no answer, did not need to.  
  
No more ‘one more day’. He had to end it, and he had to end it now, irreparably, before he lost his nerve.  
  
  
  
The clinic was open, and Anders was arm deep in a miner’s intestines when Fenris padded through the doorway. Anders spared him a glance but otherwise ignored him, even though he could feel the elf lingering as he fought to heal the man’s ruptured tubing, to replace his flayed skin. How he’d made it from the Bone Pit in this condition was nothing short of miraculous.  
  
By the time he was done, Anders was covered in blood, red rivulets snaking down his arms, his fingers, to drip to the floor. He uncorked a lyrium potion with his teeth and gulped it down, smearing bloody fingerprints along the glass. His trembling stilled and his head cleared.  
  
“Let him rest,” he told the miner’s friends. His patient was out cold and would be for hours. “He can spend the night here.” They nodded and left, offering tired thanks over their shoulders.  
  
Fenris appeared beside him with a washing basin. Anders considered being petty and ignoring it, but he hated the sticky feeling between his fingers. “It’s morning,” the elf said as the mage took the basin.  
  
“What?” Anders grunted, sluicing blood from his arms. Maker, getting this off his coat was going to be a pain.  
  
“It’s morning. You said he could stay the night.”  
  
Anders blinked. “Oh.”

“Have you been at this all night?”  
  
Anders hated the touch of concern he heard there. He had to stay angry at the damned elf, and this wasn’t making it easy. He still didn’t look at him, busy with cleaning, but he could all but feel Fenris squirming.  
  
“Why are you here, Fenris?” he asked.  
  
“I… wanted to apologize. And Hawke all but threw me down his basement stairs to… _encourage_ me to do so.”  
  
Anders snorted. “Did you forget he was a mage too?” he asked. He stripped off his pauldrons, his coat, and his tunic and dabbed at them with a wet cloth. It was hopeless, but it kept his hands busy and gave him an excuse not to look into Fenris’ puppy eyes.  
  
“I… forgot much in my anger,” Fenris murmured. “I did not mean what I said.”  
  
Anders threw down his ruined clothes and finally, _finally_ looked at Fenris (and his puppy eyes, _dammit_ ), jaw tight and eyes hard. “Of _course_ you meant it,” he snapped. “It’s what you’ve been saying all along! I thought maybe you’d picked up some sympathy between _your_ demons and _my_ Templars, but you’re just as hard-headed as ever!”  
  
“Anders, can you not understand that this might be difficult for me?” Fenris snapped back, puppy eyes gone, thank the Maker. “I’ve spent the better part of my life surrounded by abominations, by corrupt mages and maleficar! And there you were, _freeing_ one and unleashing it onto the world for the sake of mage’s rights!”  
  
Justice quivered with rage. Anders kept him back with two words: “Get out.”  
  
“Mage—”  
  
“Yes, the _‘mage’_ said _get out_!” Anders shouted. “We are done!”  
  
Fenris rocked back, looking stricken. “When… you say done…”  
  
“I mean _done_ ,” Anders grit through his teeth. His lips and words quavered, but they struck true.  
  
 _Go,_ Anders thought. _Go before I lose my resolve._  
  
Fenris stared at him. He took one step back, then two, and would have fled through the door if a Templar hadn’t been standing in his way. Cold rushed down Anders’ spine as he snatched up his staff.  
  
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Carver said, face pale. “But I could use some healing, if you don’t mind.” Fenris caught him as he swayed. Anders went back to work as Fenris left to fetch Hawke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as "Anders, You Idiot"

“I didn’t realize the Carta were that stupid,” Anders said. He was tending to the older Hawke now, examining a nasty cut down the back of his arm. Carver was resting in the spare room upstairs, and Anders had sent Lirene to his clinic to keep an eye on his patient.  
  
Varric shrugged. “They usually aren’t. Do you think this has to do with that Anolla—uh, Allon kid?”  
  
“Ellonni,” Anders corrected, wincing. The name made him think of Fenris, and he’d wasted enough time thinking of Fenris.  
  
“Yeah, that one.”  
  
“Maybe,” Hawke sighed. “But then not _everyone_ who wants to kill me is in league. Right?”  
  
“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Anders replied. “We’ve started a club: the Haters Against Hawke Alliance, or HAHA for short.”  
  
“Oh, haha.”  
  
“Yes, them.”  
  
“Ellonni did mention a ‘master’,” Varric said. “So did the Carta, which is odd.”  
  
Hawke hummed, brows knit. Holding Hawke’s arm still, Anders stitched the seams of skin together, his hand glowing with a ghostly light.  
  
Ander knew he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, as far as his mana was concerned. The moment he finished healing Hawke’s wound, he stumbled, the world graying at the edges. Hawke caught him with his newly-healed arm.  
  
“Whoa, there, Blondie,” Varric said, hurrying over.  
  
“Are you alright?” Hawke asked.  
  
“Sorry,” Anders muttered, levering himself into a seat. Maker, he was tired. “I’m a bit low on mana. You Hawke boys are too high maintenance. I don’t suppose you have a potion handy?”  
  
Hawke fetched him a lyrium potion, which Anders downed gratefully, feeling immediately more awake. His healer’s instincts told him what he needed was rest, not more lyrium, but he and Justice knew they had too much to do.  
  
“Oh, _emma vhenan_! Are you alright?”  
  
Merrill raced through the doorway and threw her arms around Hawke, tutting at the smear of blood along his now-healed arm. He kissed the top of her head and smiled, eyes soft in a way that made Anders ache.  
  
“I’m fine, love,” he murmured.  
  
“Fenris told me you and your brother were attacked!” Merrill said. Fenris hovered in the doorway, and Anders glanced at him before he could stop himself. Their eyes met before he looked away.  
  
“Yes, and the bastards ruined my favorite shirt,” Hawke said, pouting as he looked at his torn and bloodied sleeve.  
  
“Guess the mages need a wardrobe change,” Varric replied. Anders laughed self-consciously. He was clad in only a tunic and leggings, feeling strangely exposed without his coat and pauldrons.  
  
“A patient decided to bleed on me,” he said in reply to Merrill’s questioning look. “So I don’t want to hear your complaints, Hawke.”  
  
“Excuse me, but there is no comparison here,” Hawke teased. “ _My_ clothing is stylish.”  
  
Anders pouted. He _liked_ his clothes.  
  
“You look so different without that great big coat,” Merrill trilled. “I would never have guessed you were so thin.”  
  
Anders coughed into his fist to hide the way his cheeks were burning. He’d lost quite a bit of weight since joining with Justice, especially lately, and gravitated towards bulkier clothes to hide that fact. He could feel Fenris watching him. The elf had seen him naked, but somehow he felt more exposed like this.

“You know,” Anders said, changing the subject, “when I saw your brother in the doorway, I thought the clinic was being raided by Templars again.”  
  
Fenris scowled, gauntlets creaking.  
  
“Oh, don’t start,” Anders snapped at him.  
  
“What? You think I don’t remember Alrik?”  
  
Anders had been avoiding that name in his mind, had been skirting around that instinctive panic since he saw Templar armor in his doorway. “From the way you’ve been acting? No, I don’t think you do.”  
  
Fenris sneered and stormed out of the room. “ _Pedica te cochleari_ ,” he spat over his shoulder.  
  
Anders had no idea what that meant, but he doubted it was anything good. He looked up to find three sets of eyes staring at him only to studiously look away the moment he noticed.  
  
“Lovers’ spat?” Varric asked.  
  
Anders scowled. “That would imply we were lovers. Excuse me, but I think I’ll go check on Carver.”  
  
He retreated upstairs, but not before he heard Hawke mutter, “He must _really_ not want to talk about it if he’d rather be with my brother.”

 

Hawke was a sadistic bastard. It was the only explanation Anders had for why he insisted he would bring both him _and_ Fenris along to the Vimmark Mountains, once Varric had ascertained that that was where the renegade Carta conspirators laired.  
  
“I understand you wanting to bring along a healer,” Anders hissed, pulling Hawke aside. “But do you really need _both_ Fenris and Carver?”  
  
“You’re right!” Hawke announced much too chirpily. “Carver, stay home!”  
  
“No. Fuck you.” Carver didn’t even glance at his brother as he answered, sifting through a letter from his commander.  
  
Hawke shrugged, smiling innocently. “Look at that. I guess we’re all going.”  
  
Anders gave Hawke a flat look, and Hawke smiled. The look Fenris gave Anders was chilly, and the mage realized he’d overheard. Damn elven hearing.  
  
“Stay the night, the three of you,” Hawke said then, clapping Anders on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ll head out tomorrow at first light.”  
  
Anders stayed but didn’t sleep, despite how bone-tired he felt. He (and Justice) had gotten used to drifting off next to another body, the song of lyrium in his ears. After two hours of staring at the ceiling, he got up to make some healing and lyrium potions for the trip. If he downed a few lyrium potions himself to stay alert, well. There was no one awake to scold him for it.

 

Vimmark Pass was a craggy wasteland. A coat borrowed from Hawke kept out the chill, but Anders missed his, threadbare as it was. He wondered if Justice would approve of Anders wasting coin to have it specially cleaned.  
  
(Justice told him he wouldn’t. Damn spirit.)  
  
The Hawkes took point, leaving Fenris to walk stiffly beside Anders, neither acknowledging the other’s existence. It was so much like old times that Anders didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  
  
The leagues crawled by. The colors around him had the too-bright, saturated quality he knew came from lack of sleep, and whenever his eyes started to feel heavy, he took a sip of lyrium, ignoring his better judgment and trudging on. He was Hawke’s only healer, and the man needed him.  
  
The first thing to go wrong were the dwarves themselves. Anders’ blood ran cold at the sight of milky eyes, of pale skin and black veins.  
  
 _Maker_. Why did Anders bother leaving the Wardens if darkspawn and the Blight were going to follow him anyway?  
  
“It’s you!” exclaimed an infected dwarf, milky eyes wide. “Both brothers! You’ve come!”  
  
The group slowed to a stop in front of the dwarf, who blocked their way.  
  
“Is… he referring to you and me?” Carver asked, leaning towards his brother. He kept one hand on his hilt.  
  
“Everyone! It’s the children of Malcolm Hawke!” Dwarves crept out into the open all around them, all with the same milky eyes and black veins. “They’ve come to us!”  
  
“Oh dear,” Anders murmured, readying his staff. Next to him, Fenris bent his knees and adjusted his grip on his sword.  
  
“What does my father have to do with this?” Hawke asked, eyes narrowing.  
  
“It began with him and ends with you,” said the dwarf. “Blood for blood.”  
  
Anders fought the urge to exchange glances with Fenris. “Did your father do something to piss off the Carta?” he asked.  
  
“Pissing people off _is_ part of the family trade,” Hawke replied absently, eyes never leaving the infected dwarf.  
  
“The blood,” the dwarf said, milky eyes wide and rapturous as he and his companions reached for their blades. “We must have it. Corypheus will walk in the sun once more!”  
  
The battle was hard and bloody but over in a matter of seconds. Hawke called down fire while Anders launched spears of ice. The warriors cut down their charred and frozen remains.  
  
“Why is it always blood?” Hawke whined, a question made ironic by the red spatter across his mage robes. “Why can’t it ever be hair or spit or something?”  
  
“I think the real question is: why is it always _you_?” Anders asked.  
  
“A point to the mage,” Carver drawled.  
  
“The question _I_ want to know is,” Fenris said, expression grim, “who is this Corypheus?”  
  
  
  
Cutting down more dwarves left them with corpses, a glowy staff Hawke _had_ to have, and more questions than answers. The Carta had been infected with the Blight (drinking darkspawn blood? Really?) and all but worshiped this being Corypheus, whatever he was.  
  
Tired as he was, Anders knew it was pointless to call it a day and ask Hawke to go home. This was where he’d exchange weary looks with Fenris if he weren’t doing his damnedest to ignore him.  
  
“We can still be back before lunch,” Hawke wheedled, to a chorus of groans from his companions.  
  
No one was surprised when they found themselves sealed inside the tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pedica te cochleari = “Tevene” (Latin) for “Go sodomize yourself with a spoon”. Being a Latin adjunct professor has its perks.


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m sure there’s another way out,” Hawke said. Anders should have known that ‘other way’ would involve the Deep Roads and darkspawn.  
  
The weight of the world loomed over their heads, and Anders was having flashbacks to Amaranthine, to Vigil’s Keep and the Warden (Maker, he missed Ser Pounce-a-Lot). The air was cold and close and stank of evil. It made Anders want to jump out of his skin and run back to Kirkwall, seals and demons and ominous dwarven cults be damned. Hawke could collect his coat if he wanted it back.  
  
The air moved strangely down here, its breeze almost sounding like a voice, whispering.  
  
Under his skin, Justice _itched_. Anders could be back in Kirkwall, writing manifestos and inciting revolution. He could be freeing his fellow mages who—  
  
Who might turn to blood magic and start killing children.  
  
 _Maker._  
  
Anders’ head was starting to pound. He drank another lyrium potion while the Hawkes were busy looting darkspawn corpses.  
  
“You look tired, mage.”  
  
Anders jumped at Fenris’ voice. The elf stood at his shoulder, green eyes too observant, too shrewd for Anders’ to meet. This close, Justice ached to trace the lines of lyrium along his skin. This time, Anders had to be the firm one.  
  
“I’m tired of a lot of things,” he said dismissively. Fenris watched him for a moment longer (Anders refused to look at him, in case there were puppy eyes involved) before he turned and went to help Hawke, leaving Anders alone with an empty potion bottle and a restless voice in his head.  
  
  
  
“The mage was right. You shouldn’t have brought me.”  
  
Hawke looked up at Fenris from where he crouched next to a particularly ripe darkspawn corpse. Fenris crinkled his nose at the smell. Hawke looked past him to Anders, who was leaning against a pillar, rubbing his forehead and mumbling to himself, probably to Justice.  
  
He motioned for Fenris to crouch next to him with a curl of his fingers. “If anything, I suspect I shouldn’t have brought _him_ ,” he said softly, indicating Anders with a glance.  
  
“He’s… our only healer.”  
  
“He also has a Fade spirit in his head,” Hawke murmured, “who’s getting more erratic. And who only seems to listen to you, while you’re all… glowy.”  
  
Fenris searched Hawke’s face, his expression turning grim. “I’m here to protect you from _him_?”  
  
“You’re here to protect him from himself. I’m worried about him.”  
  
A muscle jumped in Fenris’ jaw. “I don’t think he wants anything from me, protection or otherwise.”  
  
Hawke pursed his lips.   
  
“Fenris, I don’t know what going on with you two, but right now I need you to focus on keeping each other safe.”  
  
Fenris took a breath, looking ready to argue, only to sigh and nod. “Yes, Hawke.”  
  
“That’s my boy.”

 

Meeting Larius was like meeting your future corpse: smelly and creepy as fuck.  
  
The Hero of Fereldan had told Anders about the Calling but in an abstract way that said she didn’t quite understand it either. Since Tabris had sort of been made a Warden ‘on-the-go’, Anders suspected that much of her Warden-based education had been rushed or learned the hard way.  
  
For Anders, seeing Larius was the hard way.  
  
The ex-Warden had milky eyes, patchy hair, and a shuffling gait that reminded Anders chillingly of darkspawn.  
  
“How do you bring the key here?” the creature asked, head tilting jerkily, like a bird’s.  
  
“You mean this?” Hawke asked, unslinging the new staff he’d taken from a fresh (if tainted) dwarven corpse. “How is this a key?”  
  
“Magic,” the aged Warden said. “Old magic, it is. Magic from the blood. It made the seals. It can destroy them.”  
  
“Again with the blood?” Carver muttered. Anders shrugged.  
  
“So this is what’s going to get us out of here?” Hawke asked, slinging the staff back onto his back. Anders knew he could have it in his hands again at a moment’s notice. “Great. Now what do you know of this Corypheus fellow?”  
  
“Do not say his name!” the old Warden hissed. “He will hear you! Do not wake him!”  
  
Anders was liking this less and less. “I swear I never meet anyone normal when I’m with you, Hawke.”  
  
“Hawke?” Larius looked first at Anders, then at Hawke, the motion sharp and bird-like.  
  
Anders smothered a yawn as Larius went on about Hawke’s blood and the key again, his eyes feeling gritty and heavy. He sneaked another potion. The elf gave him a look at that, which Anders answered with a glare. Fenris huffed and curled his lip before turning away, shaking his head.  
  
Hawke watched the strange man as he babbled, his brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.  
  
Larius straightened, looking affronted. “Me? I’m the one who’s supposed to be here.”  
  
Anders knew what was ‘wrong’ with the man, knew this could be his future. Better to die a martyr.  
  
“He’s wearing Warden armor,” he said, earning a puzzled look from Hawke.  
  
Larius looked past Hawke and directly at Anders. “You hear it, don’t you?” he asked. “I can smell it in you.”  
  
Anders squirmed under his stare and the stares of his companions.  
  
“Hear what?” Hawke asked. “Anders?”  
  
Anders shook his head. “Can you just tell us how to get out of here?” he asked.  
  
“The only way out,” Larius said, “is down and in. Follow me.”

 

They followed Larius at a distance, fending off darkspawn and demons alike as Hawke used his new shiny staff to break the seals leading further down the tower.  
  
Fenris took point this time, and Hawke slowed to walk beside Anders. Anders was both relieved and disappointed to see Fenris leave his side. It was a feeling he knew he had to get used to.  
  
What he thought was the wind turned out to be actual whispering, words just at the edge of his hearing and growing louder as they descended.  
  
“Do you hear that?” he asked, straining to listen. “What’s he saying?”  
  
Hawke tilted his head and listened as they walked. “I don’t hear anyone,” he said, brows furrowing.  
  
Justice did not like that, but Anders shrugged it off. Sounds echoed oddly in deep passages like these.  
  
“You should think of joining the Grey Wardens, you know,” Anders muttered. “You might actually end up in the Deep Roads less often.”  
  
Hawke chuckled, clapping his shoulder. “I am sorry, Anders. I swear I don’t do this on purpose.”  
  
Anders’ smile was tight, and Hawke’s slipped.  
  
“Hey,” Hawke said. “We won’t be here long, I swear. We’ll figure this out, and—”  
  
“And be back by lunch?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Anders rolled his eyes but let himself be taken in by Hawke’s charm.  
  
“Anders,” Hawke said, voice suddenly serious. “Are you going to tell me what that was about back there? With you and Larius?”  
  
“Were you sensing some chemistry between us too?”  
  
“Anders.”  
  
“Hawke.”  
  
Hawke grabbed him by the elbow, forcing Anders to face him. Up ahead, Carver and Fenris stopped as well, exchanging glances. “A straight answer, please,” Hawke said, expression pinched. “As much as I… cherish the thought of you and Larius making creepy, Wardeny love, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”  
  
Anders squirmed, pulling out of Hawke’s grip. “We’re not supposed to— These are Warden secrets you’re asking about, Hawke.”  
  
“Since when have you cared about that?” Fenris said, earning a scowl from Anders.  
  
“The elf has a point,” Hawke said, his expression apologetic.  
  
Anders grimaced. Talking about this was the last thing he needed, especially in front of Fenris. “There are parts of being a Grey Warden you can’t run away from,” he said.  
  
Like the nightmares. One look at Fenris, and Anders knew he was thinking exactly that.  
  
Hawke nodded and gestured for him to continue. Anders sucked in a steadying breath. Maker, he was too exhausted for this. “The Wardens… we don’t get to die of old age, you know. Probably a good thing in my case. I’d make a fairly crotchety old man.”  
  
Hawke didn’t laugh.  
  
“Anyway, we are only resistant to the taint for so long. After a while, we… become like the darkspawn, more or less. We turn into that.” He gestured vaguely in Larius’ direction.  
  
“Anders,” Hawke breathed.  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that doe-eyed look,” Anders said with a shaky laugh. “I plan to die while I’m still young and handsome, you know, so what’s the difference?”  
  
He pushed past Hawke to keep walking, only to find Fenris barring his way, looking stricken. “Anders…”  
  
“I know what you’re thinking,” Anders said, throwing on the widest, fakest smile he could find. “Thank the Maker I saved you from dealing with this, right? Better you find someone you can grow old with, someone who…”  
  
Anders’ throat closed up. He grit his teeth to keep his lips from trembling.  
  
“Anders.”  
  
Fenris’ hands hesitated over Anders’ shoulders a moment, before reaching up and cupping his cheeks, forcing the mage to look at him. The press of lyrium to his skin made Anders shudder, and Anders ached to pull Fenris to him, to kiss the concern from his face.  
  
Justice reared up in the back of his mind.  
  
“Don’t,” Anders said, pulling away before Justice forced him to. “Just don’t.”  
  
The elf had no right looking that sad, not over him.


	6. Chapter 6

They weren’t back for lunch. Or for supper. They made camp that night amid the stones and the damp.  
  
“I’ll take first watch,” Anders said. His hands shook from exhaustion, but he dreaded the sort of nightmares he’d face down here, in the wake of a growing whisper the others couldn’t hear.  
  
“No, you won’t,” Hawke said, giving him a hard look. “You’re about to collapse as it is.”  
  
Carver volunteered before Anders could argue. As a healer, he knew (at least) two nights in a row subsisting on lyrium instead of sleep was bad enough, but three was dangerous. The mage sighed and settled in, but the closer he drifted to sleep, the louder the whispering seemed to grow.  
  
  
  
An hour later, Anders woke to a hand over his mouth, a scream dying in his throat, and a Templar pinning him to the ground. _Not again_ , Anders thought, panic blotting out sense. Justice fought his way through, and their alcove flared with a blue light. Alrik jerked back, cursing with Carver’s voice.  
  
 _**“You dare touch me, Templar?”**_  
  
Carver threw up his hands, palms out. Behind him, a sleep-addled Hawke and Fenris scrambled for their weapons.  
  
“You were screaming!” Carver hissed. “I was trying to shut up you before you summoned a damned horde of darkspawn! And your _glowing_ will do the same thing if you don’t put your spirit thing away!”  
  
A voice murmured like static through Anders’ mind, asking for _blood, blood, blood,_ and Justice shook his head to clear it. Magic crackled in the air around Justice, electricity arcing overhead.  
  
“Justice.”  
  
The spirit turned to the song of lyrium, as always, unable to resist. Fenris stood before him, glowing and solid and _beautiful_ as ever. It made Anders’ heart ache, but it made Justice furious.  
  
 _ **“You! I will have no more of your tricks!”**_ he roared. Half-shapes of demons circled the pair, laughing, watching, and mocking.  
  
Fenris’ eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Justice—”  
  
 _ **“You call me a demon, but it is**_ **you _who are the demon!”_** He grabbed Fenris by the throat. _**“Tempting him… tempting**_ **me.”** Hawke had a spell on his lips, but Fenris forestalled him with a look and a shake of his head.  
  
“Anders,” the elf said, hands around Justice’s arm. “Anders, you can fight this. You are not weak. _Please_.”  
  
Fenris had said that to him before, when Justice had almost killed Ella. _Maker_.  
  
The Voice was louder around Fenris, beside the Fade, and it coaxed and soothed in equal measure. _Yes, good, kill them, my child,_ it said, its pull almost as strong as wide green eyes.  
  
 _Justice, stop,_ Anders pleaded. _Please. It’s_ Fenris.  
  
Justice wavered, and Anders grappled with the spirit, clawed his way to the surface with a great, gasping breath. The blue light flickered out, and Anders’ nerveless fingers slid from Fenris’ neck. The elf steadied him, guided him to sit.  
  
 _My child, my child, my child,_ the Voice sang, and Anders whimpered, curling into a ball and pressing his hands over his ears.

Fenris’ hand was still on Anders’ arm and stayed there, even when a smattering of darkspawn skittered out of the dark. The elf held him back when he tried to go for his staff.  
  
“There’s only a few. Let Hawke and Carver deal with them,” Fenris murmured. Anders could feel that gorgeous voice in his bones.  
  
The brothers Hawke made quick work of the darkspawn on their own. Anders rubbed his forehead and tried to shush the voice in his head. Fenris gave him a worried look.   
  
Even after he sliced the last darkspawn in half, Carver paced like a caged tiger. “He is a liability,” he said to his brother, pointing a blood-spattered blade in Anders’ direction. “You shouldn’t have brought him here!”  
  
“Shut up, Carver,” Hawke snapped. “You’re not helping!”  
  
“He’s right,” Anders said, voice trembling. “I-I am a danger to you. To all of you.”  
  
Fenris’ grip tightened, and Hawke looked at him, for once not knowing what to say.  
  
“You just need rest,” Fenris said.  
  
When Anders turned to Fenris, they were close enough to bump noses. “I would have thought you of all people would have agreed with me,” he murmured.   
  
Fenris shook his head, in denial or exasperation, Anders didn’t know. “Fool mage,” he said, but with affection as he cupped Anders’ cheek. “You need to stop assuming you know what I’m thinking.”  
  
Anders’ expression softened.  
  
“I think we all know what he’s thinking now,” Carver muttered. Hawke smacked him in the shin with his staff. “ _Ow_!”  
  
Anders cleared his throat and pulled away, grateful that Carver had ruined the moment. Justice was right about one thing: demons weren’t the only things that tempted mages.  
  
“We’re not safe here,” Hawke said, scooping up his pack. “An hour’s rest might be all we get for now. We move on.”


	7. Chapter 7

The world was starting to get a bit gray about the edges, his eyes turning gummy. Anders uncorked another lyrium potion, so tired he was numb to the alarm he should be feeling, needing another one so soon. Anders gulped it down, using two hands to steady it.  
  
“That’s not water, you know.”  
  
Anders looked at Hawke askance but said nothing. He didn’t need to explain himself.   
  
The lyrium washed through him with icy fingers, and he shivered, sighing in relief. Hawke was still watching him.  
  
“Anders, when’s the last time you slept?”  
  
In front of them, Fenris’s ears quirked, telling Anders that he was listening in.  
  
“A couple hours ago,” he replied. “Most refreshing hour of my life.”  
  
“Before that, Anders,” Hawke replied impatiently.  
  
“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Anders said. “I can rest properly when we’re out of here. For now, just… focus on assembling that key thingy so we can find out what in blazes your father and the Wardens were up to.”  
  
Hawke pursed his lips.  
  
It was getting harder to focus on their conversation with a second voice in his head. Maker, his skull felt like it was going to burst open. “Hawke, please.”  
  
Hawke relented grudgingly. “Alright. But you’re sleeping when we get back to Kirkwall. In a bed, too.”  
  
“Your bed?” Anders quipped, even though his heart wasn’t in it.  
  
Hawke chuffed. “If you can convince the dog to share.”  
  
  
  
Anders made a face when they descended to the base of the tower, _finally_. It was like an underground bog, equal parts stone and mud and diseased water. The muck sucked at his boots, and he took some perverse delight in Fenris’ grimace when the mud slurped at his bare feet.  
  
“Well. These Deep Roads are certainly much… _wetter_ than I remember.”  
  
Anders couldn’t wait to be out of here.  
  
Passing farther into the Deep Roads was like slowly submerging oneself into water. Anders didn’t realize he was drowning until he was in too deep.  
  
The Voice told him to bring Hawke closer, to spill his blood like a lamb for the slaughter. Only the blood of the Hawke could free him and—  
  
“I’m not listening,” Anders said, clapping his hands to his head, his staff clattering to the ground. “I’m _not_.”  
  
“Anders?”   
  
Hawke’s voice sounded like it was coming through water. So did the slide of metal as a sword was unsheathed.  
  
“Put it away, Carver.”  
  
“No.”  
  
 _Carver would work too. Either child. Their blood smells the same. You can keep the elder Hawke and the elf. You’ll free someone who was unjustly imprisoned and rid the world of a_ Templar _all at once._  
  
That made Justice perk up.  
  
“No,” Anders groaned. “No, no, _no_.”  
  
His mind was frayed from exhaustion, and he could not fight them both. Gauntleted hands grabbed his shoulders, steadying him and drawing his attention. “Mage, focus.”  
  
Anders looked up into Fenris’ eyes as blue fissures erupted along his skin, clinging to Fenris like a lifeline. “Love, help me,” he pleaded before Justice surged forward, blocking out everything else.

 

Anders woke to hot pain at the back of his head, and he felt like a wet rag, one someone had tried to wring out a few times. Something warm cushioned his head, and fingers brushed his forehead, bleeding cool lyrium into his skin. Fractured whispers bounced around in his skull.  
  
Anders didn’t realize he’d been murmuring until someone gently told him to hush.  
  
“Fenris?” Anders slurred, eyes opening to slits. “M’head hurts.”  
  
“I apologize for that,” the elf said softly. “Justice was getting a bit… unruly.”  
  
“Attacky is more the word,” Carver added. Anders didn’t see the glare Fenris leveled at him.  
  
Lyrium-lined fingers continued to brush back his hair, and Anders let his eyes slip closed again.  
  
“You’ll be alright, mage,” Fenris murmured, so soft Anders could barely hear him. “It would kill me to lose you this way.”  
  
That hurt more than the knot at the back of his head. None of this was fair.  
  
“Justice has been a pain lately,” Anders murmured, his words still running together. “Says you’re… you’re a distraction.”  
  
Maker, he felt like he could sleep for a week.  
  
Fenris’ fingers paused.   
  
“From what I can see,” Hawke said tightly, “I don’t think Justice should get a say, not when he lets you neglect yourself the way he has been.”  
  
The spike of guilt he felt from his resident spirit surprised Anders. “S’not… it’s…”  
  
“Hush, mage,” Fenris murmured, passing a hand over Anders’ eyes, encouraging him to keep them closed. His touch soothed Anders’ fevered skin. “Just rest.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter after this, my dears. Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Anders’ head was a warm weight in Fenris’ lap, one Fenris was hunched over, almost protectively. The mage’s skin burned with fever under his palm, and he didn’t know what to do.  
  
“He is unwell, Hawke.”  
  
“I don’t exactly see any healers around here, elf,” Carver groused. “Except for him, that is.” He indicated Anders with a jut of his chin.  
  
Hawke chewed on his thumbnail, his stare far away. Fenris’ heart sank. Hawke clearly didn’t know what to do either.  
  
“The only way out seems to be through this Corypheus fellow,” Hawke sighed, running a hand through his hair, “and Anders is in no condition to be moved. I’m open to suggestions here, Fenris.”  
  
“I think you know what _my_ suggestion would be,” Carver muttered.  
  
“That’s why I said _Fenris_ ,” Hawke snapped. Fenris sent Carver a narrowed glare, noting that the Templar still had a hand on the hilt of his sword.  
  
Then again, there was a time when Fenris would have voted to “kill the abomination” himself. Maker, what had the fool mage turned him into?  
  
“Now, now, girls, stop fighting,” Anders mumbled against Fenris’ thigh. Fenris looked down to see him stirring, blond lashes fluttering. How long had the mage been awake?   
  
Anders pushed himself to a sit, moving gingerly but shrugging off Fenris’ steadying hand. He still looked pale, the skin bruised under his eyes, but he also looked more awake, alert.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Hawke asked, brows knit in concern.  
  
“Oh, terrible,” Anders replied sunnily. “But marginally less terrible. Can this _please_ be the last time we venture into the Deep Roads, Hawke? It never ends well.”  
  
“I second that,” Fenris muttered.  
  
Hawke’s smile was tempered with concern. “I’d say ‘I promise’, but we all know I jinx things.”  
  
Anders huffed and shook his head. “We should move on,” he said. He fumbled for his staff and started to lever himself to stand, but Fenris stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.   
  
“Wait,” Fenris said. The look Anders shot him was too tired, too soft to be a glare, though it tried to be. “Are you and the… are you and _Justice_ up for this?”  
  
Anders grimaced. “Not sure I have a choice,” he replied. Fenris quirked an eyebrow, and Anders sighed, shoulders sagging. “My head is clearer. Justice is helping me fight the… the other thing.”  
  
Fenris frowned. “Corypheus?”  
  
Anders nodded, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand.  
  
“He’s right,” Hawke murmured. “The only way out is forward. We don’t have much choice.”  
  
Anders pushed himself to a stand, his legs shaking like a newborn colt’s, and Hawke handed him two potions, one healing, one lyrium. Anders nodded his thanks and drained them in one gulp apiece. He steadied after that, but Fenris continued to watch him, trailing behind the mage. He didn’t know if Anders would last through another fight, and for once, it was like a hand was squeezing _his_ heart.

 

With a drop of Hawke’s blood, the building trembled, and Anders widened his stance to keep his balance. A creature emerged from the glowing prison, a creature with a disfigured face and attenuated limbs, and Anders lost his breath, for a moment thinking it was the Architect.   
  
It wasn’t, and that wouldn’t make sense anyway. _This_ creature had been imprisoned long before Anders had joined the Wardens, and he was grotesque, stone and flesh warped around each other.   
  
“Be this some dream I wake from?” the creature rumbled, looking about. Anders shuddered, hearing those words, that voice, echoing in his head.   
  
Corypheus looked down and finally seemed to notice them. “You,” he said, pointing at Hawke. “Serve you at the temple of Dumat? Bring me hence. I must speak with the first acolyte!”  
  
“Dumat?” Anders murmured, turning to Hawke. His tired brain took longer to place the name than it should have. “He was… the first Old God to become an Archdemon. There haven’t been temples to him since Ancient Tevinter.”  
  
“Oh, this just keeps getting better,” Hawke grumbled.   
  
Fenris visibly tensed. “Another magister,” he growled, gauntlets clenched around his sword.   
  
Corypheus called for Dumat, and Anders winced as the magister’s pain and longing speared through his thoughts. Justice remained stalwart now, and Anders’ eyes flashed blue for the barest second as they fought off Corypheus together. Carver’s grip on his sword tightened, but he was looking at Anders, not Corypheus.  
  
“Dumat” remained silent, and Corypheus turned back to them, expression twisting in confusion.  
  
“You look human. Are you not citizens of the empire?”  
  
This creature—Corypheus—sounded confused. How had he urged Anders to kill Hawke, to bring him to his prison, when he didn’t even know where he was?  
  
“Whoever you be, you owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter. On your knees! All of you!”  
  
Anders could practically hear Fenris’ teeth creaking from being clenched so hard.  
  
“Sorry,” Hawke replied, sounding anything but. “No kneeling here. Bad knees, you know.”  
  
Corypheus approached, eyes narrowed on Hawke. “You. You are what held me. I smell the blood in you. If I cannot leave with you, I shall leave _through_ you.”   
  
“Uh oh.”  
  
Lightning seared through the group, and Anders shuddered, tasting blood when he bit his tongue. He just barely rolled to the side in time to miss another bolt, only to come face to face with a jet of fire.  
  
So much for talking their way out of this.  
  
“This is it,” Anders said, voice a touch hysterical as he fought to throw up a shield against the next barrage. “I’m going to die in the Deep Roads. The Elvhen God of Irony wins again!”  
  
Fenris grabbed Anders by the coat, rumpling feathers and fabric, and tugged him out onto one of the balconies, into the open air. They tucked themselves away in a corner of the balcony, where Corypheus’ magic couldn’t reach them from where they stood. “You’re not funny,” Fenris growled. “And you’re not dying.”  
  
“Your optimism is cheering.” Anders peeked around the corner, searching for the brothers. Across the way, Hawke and Carver made for another balcony, bearing the brunt of Corypheus’ attention, while inside, the air crackled with electricity. The ground started to shake, and Anders clutched at the wall while Fenris clutched at him.  
  
“ _Vanhedis_ ,” Fenris breathed, staring up. For miles, the sky was a mottled gray and purple, lightning flickering between bruised clouds.  
  
“I’ve never seen magic like this,” Anders said, eyes wide. There was no way they were going to survive this. Their eyes met, and Anders found his despair reflected back on him.   
  
Erase everything else he’d been trying to tell himself about Fenris. _This_ was the one look he never wanted to see on his face. He cupped Fenris’ cheek, his hand molding to the shape of the elf’s face. Fenris cupped that hand and held it to his cheek. Too many emotions flit across his face for Anders to read.

“Fenris, I—”  
  
“I know, mage. But now is not the time.”  
  
Now might be the _only_ time, but Anders didn’t say so. He pressed his forehead to Fenris’, and they stood in the eye of the storm for a moment longer. Corypheus pressed at the corners of his mind, feeding his hopelessness, his tiredness, beseeching him to let it end, to _rest_. Maker, he even wanted to. But Justice rumbled in another corner, and Anders steeled himself, hefting his staff.  
  
“You’re right,” he told Fenris with conviction he wanted to feel. “We’re not dying today.” Or at least Fenris wouldn’t. Anders wouldn’t let him. “Stay here.”  
  
Anders pulled Fenris to him in a scorching kiss and then slipped away, darting into the maelstrom inside the tower.  
  
“Mage!” Fenris called. Anders prayed he wouldn’t follow.  
  
Corypheus had the Hawkes trapped, the elder brother gritting his teeth under the strain of maintaining a barrier. Behind him, Carver was using his massive sword to lever a statue with glowing blue eyes off the balcony.  
  
Glowing blue eyes?  
  
Of _course_. Carver was a genius.  
  
“Hey!” Anders shouted at Corypheus, shooting a wave of cold at the darkspawn. Corypheus paused in his assault on Hawke’s barrier to throw an indignant look over his shoulder.  
  
“You are insects crawling at the feet of gods,” he sneered. He waved one hand, and a wave of energy knocked Anders back, sending him skidding across the trembling floor.  
  
Behind Corypheus, Carver’s statue gave way, falling with a rumbling crash against the tower and down into the oblivion below. Corypheus roared in surprise and anger, and the maelstrom around Anders flickered.   
  
A gauntleted hand pulled Anders to his feet, and Anders threw a shield around them both. “You fool,” Fenris growled. “That is the _opposite_ of not getting killed!”  
  
“And this is the opposite of ‘stay here’. He’s drawing power from the statues. Go!”  
  
Hawke had dropped his barrier, and he and Anders sniped at Corypheus from opposite ends of the room while the warriors scurried along the balconies. The magister growled, and fissures of rock shot up beneath their feet, knocking Anders off-balance. He caught himself on his staff and one knee, but a bolt of lightning caught Hawke square in the chest.  
  
 _This is ridiculous_ , he despaired even as he sent a healing spell in Hawke’s direction and hoped it took.  
  
The room flickered once, twice, and Corypheus cursed. With a glance over his shoulder, Anders ascertained that Fenris and Carver had destroyed two more statues. Carver made for the last one while Fenris darted forward, sword aloft.  
  
Anders covered Fenris’ charge with another spray of ice as Fenris dodged fissures and jutting rock to aim a sweep at Corypheus’ legs. Corypheus staggered with a pained gasp and so did Anders, hissing and clutching at his head at the needle of pain he felt through Corypheus’ connection.  
  
Corypheus knocked Fenris back into the wall, and his pained grunt brought Anders back into himself.   
  
“Dammit. Fenris!”   
  
Anders trusted Hawke to distract Corypheus as he made for the elf, stumbling over the shifting ground. He had a hand on Fenris’ shoulder, pushing healing into him, just as the elf was pushing himself to his feet, shaking his head dizzily.  
  
“Mage, I’m alright. _Mage_.” Fenris shoved off Anders’ hand, which glowed blue with healing magic, and held him by the wrist. “I know you’re low on mana. Do not waste it.”

One last flicker, and Hawke roared, “ _Now_!”  
  
A fireball careened into Corypheus, and Anders grunted, reeling under the impact’s echo. Carver lunged at the magister, sword swinging, but Fenris held back.   
  
“Anders?”  
  
A cut of Carver’s sword, and Anders shuddered, his knuckles white around his staff. “I’m fine,” he said through grit teeth. “It’s his voice in my head. I can feel…”  
  
Then Corypheus was doubled over, a hand clutched to his stomach, his voice pleading, screaming, _shrieking_ between Anders’ ears. Anders couldn’t hear his own screaming over the noise.  
  
The sound gave Hawke pause, but Fenris waved him on.  
  
“Finish it!” he shouted, and Hawke nodded. Anders forced watery eyes to focus as Hawke gathered a storm of energy in his palms. When it connected with Corypheus, Anders felt the blast as though aimed at him, bowling into Fenris, who held him tight by the arms.  
  
The magister crumpled. Anders half expected an explosion, something dramatic from a creature that ancient, that _powerful_ , but he simply slumped to the ground like any other dead creature.  
  
“Oh,” he breathed. “I guess that’s it, then.”   
  
Relief and exhaustion washed over him. Fenris cursed and caught him about the waist as he slipped into darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll just write a one-shot,” I say as I write The Tempting and the Tempted.
> 
> “I’ll just write one sequel,” I say as I write (Almost) Always.
> 
> “I’ll just make it a trilogy,” I say as I write Tomorrow.
> 
> “Ahh, fuck it,” I say as I crack my knuckles and get to work on the next story in the series.
> 
> **tl;dr: Yeah, I’m not done with this series. Keep an eye out!**

For a full day, Anders slept the sleep of the dead. In Hawke’s mansion, as promised. Fenris stood guard outside his door all that time, never entering. Or sat guard, really, after a few hours. He even slept with his back to the wall.  
  
The third time he passed Fenris in the hallway, Hawke paused, sighing. “You’re going to need to talk to him, you know,” he said. He crossed his arms and stared down at the elf.  
  
Fenris glanced up and scoffed. “I know. Anders and I—”  
  
“Not Anders. Justice.”  
  
That caught Fenris off-guard. “Justice?”  
  
“Yes. Justice. Or have you not realized that he’s the reason Anders broke things off with you in the first place?”  
  
Fenris blinked, parsing these words. “That’s— No. The things I said—”  
  
“—he’s already heard from you at one point or another.” Hawke looked heavenward as though expecting the Maker to nod in agreement. “ _Please_. Anders was fishing for an excuse.”  
  
Fenris remembered the kiss on the Tower’s balcony, remembered the look of desperation on his face as the mage held him close one last time. He also remembered earlier, remembered Anders’ face just before Justice took over. _Love, help me,_ he’d said.  
  
 _Love._  
  
Fenris paled. “I… I can’t,” he said, running a hand through his hair.  
  
“You can’t keep running away, Fenris.”  
  
Fenris winced at the buried hurt in Hawke’s eyes. He ducked his head. “Hawke,” he said, fiddling with his gauntlets. “You know I—”  
  
“Fenris.” Hawke cut him off. “You want to explain to me later, that’s fine. But right now this is about him, not me.”  
  
Hawke left while Fenris was still figuring out what to say. For a moment, Fenris thought about that night with Hawke and wondered how things might have been different if he’d stayed. But, in the end, he knew Hawke was never the mage he wanted.  
  
Squaring his jaw, Fenris clambered to his feet and pushed open the door.  
  
Anders still slept, his face pale and drawn against the pillow, cheeks hollow. This wasn’t just from the Vimmark Pass or the last few sleepless nights. This was weeks, perhaps months, of self-neglect, and Fenris wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Yet Anders always noticed when _Fenris_ wasn’t taking care of himself, always made him sleeping potions, always brought him fresh food. The blighted hypocrite.  
  
Fenris sat at the edge of the bed, pulling off a gauntlet to brush back sweat-lank blond hair, and Anders stirred in his sleep, pressing into his touch. This was the longest Fenris had seen him sleep through the nightmares.  
  
He took a steadying breath. “Justice,” he said. “Anders needs rest, but I know you can hear me.” He _didn’t_ know, but it couldn’t hurt. “I would speak with you.”

Fenris jumped when Anders’ eyes shot open, glowing with a blue light. As Justice sat up, his markings flared on instinct, but Fenris maintained them. The spirit coldly met his stare.  
  
 _ **“Speak, then.”**_  
  
Fenris was tensed to run if he needed to. He hadn’t actually expected that to work, and if Justice dropped a fireball on the room, it would be Hawke’s fault.  
  
Fenris swallowed and took a breath. Here he was, talking to a spirit. Maker, but his life was anything but dull. “You called me a demon,” he said, “in the Deep Roads.”   
  
_**“I did.”**_ If Fenris didn’t know better, he’d say the spirit looked embarrassed. Blazing eyes followed the lines of Fenris’ lyrium tattoos longingly, and Fenris wondered if this was how Isabela felt when men stared at her chest.  
  
“Did you tell Anders to stay away from me?” he asked.  
  
 _ **“I did.”**_  
  
A weight eased in Fenris’ chest. So it wasn’t Anders who wanted him gone. It wasn’t anything he did, not entirely.  
  
“Why?”  
  
The spirit looked at him. _**“Because you frighten me,”**_ he confessed. He said it simply, without inflection.  
  
“ _Frighten_ you?” Fenris blurted, unsure how to process that. “What could I do to a spirit of the Fade?”   
  
_**“You could destroy me.”**_  
  
Justice didn’t seem to mean physically. Fenris doubted a swing of his sword could do much to the spirit.   
  
_**“A spirit does not know desire. He**_ **should _not.”_**  
  
“You… are afraid you’ll turn into a demon?”  
  
 _ **“You’ve implied, many times, that you do not know the difference.”**  
_  
Fenris winced.   
  
_**“Desire, need, of any kind is dangerous for one such as I.”**_  
  
“Yet Anders is not a spirit, and it seems to me that the more Anders is denied something, the more intensely he desires it.”  
  
In any other circumstance, Fenris would have laughed at the wry look Justice gave him. _**“So I’ve learned.”**_  
  
Fenris looked down at his hands, lips quirking in a dry smile. “They wear your face, you know. _Anders’_ face.”  
  
 _ **“Who?”**_  
  
“The demons.” Fenris screwed his eyes shut. “They used to look like Danarius. Hadriana. _Varania._ Lately they all look like you.” Fenris swallowed and looked past burning eyes to the two souls beyond. “The truth is, you frighten me too.”  
  
Tortured blue eyes loomed closer, burning away anything else from Fenris’ mind, and then Anders’ lips were on his, backed by a spirit’s hunger.  
  
Fenris gasped into the kiss, his head light from the crackle of energy passing between them. He clutched at Anders’ shoulders, bunching the threadbare tunic under his fingers.  
  
“Well. This is a nice way to wake up.” The words were said against his lips, the crackle of energy gone. Fenris opened his eyes to see Anders’ back to brown. Anders smiled uncertainly, looking disoriented.  
  
“I was… chatting with Justice.”  
  
“’Chatting’. Yes. Must have been a riveting conversation.”  
  
Fenris smiled awkwardly, and Anders made a face.  
  
“Hold on,” he said. “Justice let you _kiss_ him?”  
  
“Technically, I let him kiss _me_.”  
  
“No. No, you didn’t. He would never—” Anders’ eyes glazed over, and Fenris waited for him to finish his internal debate. “Andraste’s knicker-weasels! _Justice_ , you hypocrite!”  
  
Fenris chuckled as Anders continued to curse. He cut off the mage’s diatribe by pulling him into a kiss. “I think,” he said, “that it was Justice’s way of giving us his blessing.”   
  
Anders turned inwards again, looking uncertain, but Fenris shut them both up with another kiss. The mage yielded in inches, melting against him, and Fenris smiled against his lips.

“Fenris,” Anders murmured. “Wait.”  
  
Fenris pulled back to look at Anders, at gold eyes dull and puffy with sleep. There was something so very fragile in the look Anders gave him then.  
  
“How can you still…?” Anders began, only to trail off, shaking his head. “After everything I’ve put you through the past few days, after… after what you’ve found out about the Wardens—”  
  
“Mage, do you really think we’re going to live long enough for that to matter? The way we live?”  
  
Fenris had no intention of outliving Anders, though he refrained from saying so.  
  
Anders smiled sadly, covering Fenris’ hand with his. “I suppose that’s true. But what if—”  
  
“Mage. It’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now you need rest.”   
  
“’Tomorrow’s problem’,” Anders echoed. He laughed softly at some private joke, and Fenris frowned but didn’t ask. “Alright. Rest. I can do that, for once.” Anders tightened his grip on Fenris’ hand. “Stay?”  
  
Fenris sighed as though greatly put-upon but nodded, smiling softly as he stripped off his armor and climbed into bed next to Anders. The mage curled against him, buried his face in the hollow of Fenris’ neck. He was a warm weight in Fenris’ arms, his breathing turning slow and even against Fenris’ skin.   
  
The mage was infuriating. He was a handsome, bothersome, self-destructive fool, but there was a tangle of emotions in Fenris’ heart devoted to him, and a tangle of words he tried to match up to those emotions.  
  
 _Love_ , Anders had called him, and Fenris was beginning to think that was one of the emotions, one of the words, knotted in his chest. He wondered if that word meant the same to Anders as it did to him, wondered if Anders would own up to it in a quiet moment like this.   
  
Probably not.  
  
“Sleep well, Love,” Fenris murmured against Anders’ hair, because he knew the mage was asleep, because he was a coward and knew Anders couldn’t hear him. He closed his eyes.  
  
They would deal with that tomorrow, he decided. They could both deny that word in the morning.  
  
 **End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, my dears! :)


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